


Theopoiesis

by TheRedheadinQuestion



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Mystrade fluff, Summer Mystrade Exchange
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-15
Updated: 2014-08-15
Packaged: 2018-02-13 06:27:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,102
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2140578
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheRedheadinQuestion/pseuds/TheRedheadinQuestion
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft has invoked a super secret code word...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Theopoiesis

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Mice](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mice/gifts).



> A Summer Mystrade Exchange gift for http://theopoiesis.tumblr.com/, aka Mice on AO3.

 

"Detective Inspector?" 

“Hm?”  Greg's eyes focused on the report he was writing.  Overdue paperwork had mounted a takeover of his office, and he was three hours into a counter offensive.

“Sir.”

The tone was polite, if a touch insistent.  Maybe more than a touch.  Greg glanced upwards.  Two men in dark suits stood in his doorway.

"Yes?" 

"Theopoiesis."

Greg stared at the men and paled. 

"Are you sure?"

"Quite.  Please come with us."

Greg nodded and rose slowly.

"Is there time to--"

"Sir, we've been instructed to transport you immediately."

"Yeah okay."  He grabbed his coat and mobile and followed one of the dark suits.  The second one trailed.  Fear gripped his insides.  If Mycroft was using their special code, the situation must be dire.  He hadn't heard anything unusual on the news or any whispers around the Yard.  Then again, Mycroft's activities almost never made the evening news.

Greg was escorted to one of Mycroft's shiny black cars.  The vehicle pulled away and headed north, out of London.  Greg looked out the window for evidence of...something.  Zombies, rampaging monsters, things like that.  Everything appeared normal; just normal people doing normal things and getting on with their normal lives.

When Mycroft first suggested a code word, more than a year ago, Greg thought it was a joke.  After all, he was a Detective Inspector with New Scotland Yard; he was accustomed to threats, situations and the like.  But Mycroft, of course, had elevated persuasion to an art form. By the end of the evening, not only had he agreed, he thought it was an excellent idea.  The bottle of wine hadn’t helped matters.   But that was  neither here nor there.  If the word had been uttered, some serious shit had gone down. 

"Where’s Anthea?  Sherlock and John?"  He asked Suit #1.  His parents?  The others at the Yard?  Was he expected to hide while they were exposed to…whatever was out there? The more he considered the implications, the harder it was to breathe.

"We were instructed to pick you up and deliver you safely to the location.  That's the extent of our information."

Greg sighed and pulled out his mobile. 

**_What’s up?_   gl**

He stared at the scenery flying by until the phone buzzed in his hand. 

**_Later_   mh**

Greg’s eyebrows shot up.  When they became serious, his mobile was added to Mycroft's secure network.  What couldn’t be said over that?  Unless the line had been breached...

After what seemed like forever, but in reality was only thirty minutes, the car passed a familiar village and stopped at Mycroft's country house.  Not quite the safe location Greg was expecting.  He stepped out and gazed at the ivy covered front.  This, too, seemed normal. 

“Just in there sir.”  Suit #2 tilted his head towards the door. 

Greg opened it and found…nothing unusual.  No security detail running around.  No surveillance equipment.  Just a regular, if slightly posh, country house.

"Hello?"

“In here, Gregory.”   Mycroft’s voice filtered in from the back of the house. Finally. He followed the voice past the sitting room, down the hall and into the study.  Mycroft stood beside a large desk.

“What’s the situation?”  Greg asked.  Whatever it was, they needed to get his people to safety and formulate a plan.

“Ah, Gregory.  Good of you to  come.”  The left corner of Mycroft's mouth lifted in a rather nervous looking smile.

“Not like I had any bloody choice.  Now tell me, what are we up against?”

Mycroft walked to the bar in the corner and selected a cut glass bottle. 

“Brandy?” 

What the hell?  “Mycroft, _no_.  Tell me what’s going on.”

“Life is funny, isn’t it?”  Mycroft poured a drink for himself, stoppered the bottle, and gently swirled the glass.  “One can spend years, decades with a set of beliefs.  Then one day, something seemingly insignificant occurs and things are set in motion.  Things with the power to challenge those long held beliefs and render them both silly and pointless.”  He took a large swallow of the drink and stared into the depths of the glass.

“Myc?  Are you okay?”

Mycroft looked up at Greg.  “No, I’m not okay.  I haven’t been okay for a long time, and I doubt I will again.”

"Now you're scaring me."  Greg took the cup from Mycroft's hand, laid it on a side table, and pulled him into the deep leather couch.  "Whatever it is, just spit it out."

Mycroft breathing grew ragged and he focused on the patterned rug.  “Gregory.”  He whispered.  He dragged his eyes up and looked at Greg.  He slid off the couch and onto the floor, kneeling at Greg’s feet.  He reached into his pocket.

“My darling, will you consent to becoming my husband?”

Greg stared at Mycroft as his brain went offline.  “What?”

“Will you marry me?”

“ _What_?”

“I don’t know how else to phrase it…”

“But…Theopoiesis.  We’re in a state of crisis.  Where are Sherlock and John?  Anthea? My parents?  My team?”  How could Mycroft think of marriage at a time like this?  Unless.  Unless their time remaining was so short that they had to make the best of it.  Oh god…

“Crisis?”  Mycroft furrowed his brow in that cute way he had when he thought Greg was being ridiculous.  “Whatever gave you that idea?”

Now it was Greg’s turn to frown.  “You used the code word.  Our secret code word to be used if something horrific has happened.”

Mycroft blinked.  “I was given to understand it was the code word for something very important.  One might think a proposal would qualify.”

Greg slumped and took a deep breath.  “Christ Mycroft.”

Mycroft stood and walked to the fireplace.  He stared into the flames.  “I apologize if the offer of marriage isn’t important.  Perhaps I misjudged.”

Crap.  Greg rubbed the back of his neck. He made his way over to Mycroft and laid his hands on his boyfriend’s shoulders.

“I’m sorry Myc.  Really, I am.  I thought the code word meant our lives were in danger.  That the situation was so desperate that you wanted to spirit me away somewhere.  I was expecting—I don’t know.  Rampaging dinosaurs.  Daleks.  Moriarty's ghost.  It takes a bit to work down from that, y’know?”

Mycroft nodded, one short jerk of his chin.  “Understood.”

“But this.  Myc.  This question.  It _is_ important.”  At his words, Mycroft looked over his shoulder.  Greg kissed him on the nose and turned him around.  “So important.”  He slid his lips ever so lightly against Mycroft's.  “The most important.”  He whispered before lowering himself to his knees. 

“Mycroft Holmes, would you marry me?"


End file.
